The Christmas Fairy Tale or the case of little green men
by MrsSpooky1981
Summary: A semi-fairy tale, a semi-parable, semi-nonsense. The Romantic Christmas Investigation. How do we know how it really was? What if little green men truly exist?
1. Part 1

**The Christmas Fairy Tale in three parts or the case of little green men by Red Ellen**

**Translation: **MrsSpooky nick55-60 

**Classification:** case-file, MSR, a Christmas fairy tale (pre-x-files in the first two parts)

**Rating:** R (by a long stretch of the imagination)

**Summary:** a semi-fairy tale, a semi-parable, semi-nonsense. The Romantic Christmas Investigation. How do we know how it really was? What if little green men truly exist?

**Timeline:** Christmas, 1973; Christmas, 1999 (7th season)

**Warning:** a little bit of magic – after all, it's Christmas and a fairy tale as well. A little bit of musing about love and no angst. Well, almost none of it. It seems even the canon hasn't suffer.

**Disclaimer:** for God's sake, they aren't mine and I don't have a claim on them. (All heroes and the idea belong to Chris Charter personally and Fox Broadcast Television. Also great thanks to T. Pratchett for an inspiration)

By the way, I forgot to mention: I congratulate the remarkable agent Dana Scully with her birthday! This story is a gift for her and the X-files fandom.

**A translator's note:** English isn't my native language so I apologize to the readers for possible mistakes.

Feedback is hiiiiighly appreciated :)

**PART 1** CHRISTMAS IN ANNAPOLIS OR A FAIRY TALE FOR DANA.

"Why, sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast."

The White Queen

Alice in Wonderland by L. Carroll

December 24th, 1973

4:25 p.m.

"It's nonsense," says Billy with great confidence. "Just stupid girlish nonsense! Nothing of the kind truly exists!"

"Of course, it's nonsense," Charlie agrees with his elder brother. Billy is his idol so he always agrees with him no matter what.

"It's not nonsense, it's not!" Offended Melissa reaches out and pulls an old tattered book out of her brother's hands.

Dana keeps silent. Billy certainly is the eldest and knows more than any of them; after all, he is fourteen years old, but at the same time he is such a smarty-pants! And an awful pain in the neck, too. He really thinks that he knows more than daddy himself, but it's definitely not true.

"Billy, let's go play snowballs," suggests Charlie, pulling on the sleeve of Bill's sweater. "Drop it. Let them sit here alone if they want."

It has been snowing since early morning what happens quite rarely in Annapolis, so the brothers put on their gloves and leave. Dana and Melissa stay in.

"You don't believe me, too, do you?" Melissa is staring at her sister with reproach and Dana feel embarrassed.

"I don't know," she shrugs. "What if Billy is right? Nothing of the kind truly exists."

Melissa pouts, turns her back on her sister, and looks out the window. Dana signs. She'd rather enjoy playing snowballs with her brothers because snow Christmas in Annapolis happens once in a blue moon, but she doesn't want to hurt her sister's feelings. However, mommy won't allow Melissa, who has caught a cold, to go outside. So Dana stays at home out of solidarity with her.

Missy puts a pillow on the windowsill and sits on it. She wears the variegated scarf, belonged to their mother, her red hair is tousled, her nose is swollen and red so freckles are hidden from sight and her eyes are full of tears. Dana is feeling really sorry for her elder sister.

"Well, maybe exists," she hastily adds and then specifies, "but very rarely. And, Missy, nobody has ever seen them!"

"Why are you so sure about it?"

"Because daddy says so."

"But if daddy hasn't seen them, it doesn't mean they don't exist!" Missy is leafing through pages of the book and finally finds an illustration. "See?"

It's dark because an overhead lamp is turned off, and the room is illuminated only by the light, coming through the window. The attic, which the girls occupy, is poorly heated so it's barely warm here, and window glasses are covered with snow patterns. Air smells like old things, dust, and unsolved mysteries. Warm air, scents of cinnamon, ginger, and mixture for cough rise from a kitchen below.

Dana screws up her eyes and stares at the picture on a yellowed page. A short, narrow, light elf with thin semitransparent wings is drawn there.

"See?" Melissa repeats and sniffs.

"Missy, somebody just made it up," Dana's voice is full of doubt. "There aren't such things in biology textbooks!"

"How do you know?" protests Melissa heatedly. "You haven't begun to study it at school yet!"

"I looked through Bill's textbooks," replies Dana. "Elves don't exist."

"Then go away," snaps Melissa, her cheeks is flushing with anger. "I'm going to read fortune and I don't care whether you want to do it or not! I'll do it alone!

In spite of her sister's words Dana keeps on sitting on an old sagging pouffe, resting her sharp elbows on the windowsill, and stubbornly refuses to leave.

"Don't get angry, Missy. You know that fortune telling isn't true. What can paper pictures tell about future?

"You are wrong if you don't believe me." Melissa frowns and loudly blows her nose. "Because I'm really able to read fortunes. I've already checked and got evidence that all predictions come true."

Dana doesn't want to argue with her sister.

"Let's try to read future or learn who we'll marry!" exclaims Melissa and jumps down from the windowsill. "It's Christmas Eve now, so time is just perfect!"

"Missy, now that's really stupid." Almost ten-years-old Dana finds talking about potential future husbands ridiculous. "All boys are fools. Maybe I'll never get married. I'm going to be a captain in the navy!" The girl announces and proudly turns up her nose, covered with golden sunny freckles – the same as her sister's.

"They don't accept girls there," replies Melissa revengefully and screws up her piercing green eyes. "And what about daddy?"

"Daddy is daddy. And boys are still fools," says Dana and enviously sighs when she sees through the window how her brothers happily punch each other and throw snowballs, made of fresh wet snow, at the wall, so Christmas holly garland above the door swings dangerously. "How are you planning to tell fortune? I don't believe in card reading."

"We'll use wax, not cards," explains Melissa. "I have several pieces of it. It's real, magic wax."

"There is no such thing like magic wax." Dana loves her sister very much, but she can't stand to agree with something she doesn't believe in.

"You just chicken out!" Melissa teases her. "You're chicken!"

"I am not!" Dana jumps as if she has been stung.

"Chicken," repeats Melissa with satisfaction, knowing her sore spot perfectly well. "If you don't want to tell fortune so you are chicken. You're afraid!"

Again Dana wants to say that it's not true, but clear voice from below interrupts her:

"Dana, Missy!" calls their mother from the kitchen. "Let's make cookies. Missy, have you taken your medicine?"

The sisters walk down the stairs. Dana isn't really fond of baking cookies and Missy doesn't want to drink a nasty mixture, but it's unacceptable to argue with mother in Scully's family.

It's warm, light, and a little fussy in the kitchen. Melissa winces, but obediently swallows what her mother poured in a spoon. The girls are making Christmas cookies in stubborn silence, sulking at each other, but when they're done, and mother puts a baking tray into the oven, Melissa asks again, "Are you coming?"

Dana silently nods, choosing lesser evil – she'd rather melt wax than endure even a slightest suspicion of cowardice. Because she, Dana, is not a chicken at all. She is even able to shoot a gun. Besides, she is as good at it as Billy.

They walk up the stairs to the attic. It's dark outside now, and warm dusty darkness reigns in the room. The girls sit down on the floor by the window and Melissa takes out a big bowl, a thick wax candle, and a small sauceboat, which she has stolen from the kitchen, from an old cabinet. The flame is bright and even, and melting candle smells of warm wax. Melissa gets out several cubes of dark wax from the purple velvet bag, embroidered with colored glass beads, and put one of them in the sauceboat. Dana sighs heavily and leaves to get water. When she is back, Melissa holds the sauceboat above the candle with great concentration and murmurs something unintelligible, making some strange motions with her hand. It is smelled warm metal and burning dust. Melissa murmurs something about guys and their intended ones and, in Dana's opinion, talks nonsense.

"Take it," says Missy to her sister and holds out hot sauceboat. "Pour it out."

Dana hesitates for a moment, but Melissa's hurried question, "Are you chicken again?" prompts her to empty the contents of the sauceboat in the bowl with water.

For a long time the sisters are studying the result of their manipulations in the weak light of the candle.

"What is it?" asks puzzled Dana. "Maybe it's some sort of a letter? How do we suppose to understand it? It looks like a dog. What does a dog have to do with all of that nonsense?"

"I don't know," replies Melissa uncertainly. "But it's not a dog, it's a fox. Have you noticed its tail? Oh, I see," she laughs. "Your guy is going to be red-headed just like us! Probably, it's Steve McGraw whose father owns a drugstore. He likes you!"

"It's rubbish." Dana is getting angry. She can't stand that show-off Steve who immediately runs to complain to his father if she fights with him or something else. But at any moment he can whether trip her up or tug on her hair. "And Steve is a complete idiot. Never in my life I'll marry him!"

"Let's try again," suggests Melissa and puts another piece of wax in the sauceboat. "Melt it yourself."

"And what is it?" The sisters twist the bowl, trying to understand what kind of figure they get this time.

"It's even more unclear than before," snorts Dana. "I don't understand it at all."

"It looks like Casper," giggles Melissa. "You know that cartoon ghost. It's definitely Steve; he is as pale as it and has a similar voice!"

"The same to you! Melt it yourself now." With these words Dana pushes the sauceboat to her sister. "I'll never get married. And Steve is a dork!"

Melissa melts wax, and the sisters bend their red-haired heads over the bowl with water.

"I don't understand." Melissa turns the bowl around. "What is it?"

"It looks like the ace of spades," says Dana. "Will your guy be a gambler?"

Suddenly Melissa pales; it shows even in the almost complete darkness.

"What's the matter?" asks Dana.

"Nothing." Melissa takes another wax cube. "I'll try again."

And she pours wax into the water.

This time it happens to be a cross. The sisters keep silent for a moment.

"Missy, I've told you it's nonsense," says Dana with confidence.

"Yeah, probably," replies Melissa after slight hesitation, but her voice trembles. "It's really nonsense."

She quickly breaks her solidified wax figure.

"Girls, are you there?" calls their mother from below. "Dana! Melissa! Daddy is home!"

"It's mom". Melissa hurriedly blows out the candle. "Let's go downstairs."

She grabs her younger sister's hand and pulls her behind herself.

Before going to bed, Dana puts the flat wax figures in an envelope and hides it in her small black notebook. Just in case.

The Christmas feast is over, and tomorrow she and Melissa will run downstairs to get their stocking-stuffer. Of course, they will thank Santa Claus even if they know perfectly well that, in reality, gifts are from their parents. Melissa and Billy will argue themselves hoarse again. They almost fought with each other at the holiday dinner when Billy was insisting that elves didn't exist. However, elder brothers are awfully mean people. Melissa was telling that at Christmas little green men came to houses together with Santa. These men are Santa's aids; they sit in his bag with presents and help him to dispense it to all kids. She also said that they could fly so they arrived to us from another world. Bill laughed at her and repeated that it was girlish nonsense. Mom ordered them not to start a quarrel, and dad said that everybody decided for himself what to believe in.

"Dana, are you asleep?" Wrapped in the blanket and barefooted Melissa approaches and sits on her sister's bed.

"No. Missy, if you go on walking barefoot you will get worse and mom is gonna be mad at you," points out Dana, but pulls her legs up to make place on the bed for Melissa.

"Look, why don't you believe?" Her sister turns a deaf ear to Dana's words.

"Because nobody has ever seen elves, Missy," she replies with very serious expression on her face as if she answers in class. "There is no proves that they truly exist."

Melissa sighs.

"Don't you even want to believe in it?" she asks wistfully. "Why are you so boring? You are always going by the book-"

"I'm not boring," protests Dana, pushing Bill's physics textbook under the pillow. She doesn't understand all science terms, but nevertheless it fascinates her. "If you show me an elf in the flesh, of course, I'll believe you."

The door of their room is slightly ajar, and narrow band of dim light from a night lamp in the hall slides on the floor. Obscure shadows jump around, indistinct parents' voices and some strange rustle are heard from the living-room downstairs.

Suddenly Melissa cries out and quickly raises her legs up on the bed.

"What's the matter?" asks puzzled Dana.

"Look!"

Something small pushes through the open door. A small, green, shining creature slides on the floor and they hear ringing metal rattle.

"Look, look, it's an elf!" yelps Melissa.

Dana pushes the blanket aside, jumps to her feet and run to the door.

Loud burst of laughter from the hall reaches their ears when Bill and Charlie run along the corridor to their room, screaming something like, "Here is your elf!" Then Mom loudly orders all kids to go to bed immediately.

Dana reaches out and picks up an old plush toy monkey from the floor. It wears two green socks and is wrapped in some kind of green cloth with foil stars, shining in the darkness. A small toy timer is tied to its back. The monkey has hurt expression on its face; it looks like the plush animal is deeply offended by one of the socks, which the boys have put on its head.

"You are right," sighs Melissa, taking off the socks. "Boys are really fools. And pain in the neck."

Then the girls go to sleep.

Gradually, stillness descends on the house and only fresh wind rustles on the windows, covers the driveway with snow, swings the garlands above the front door, and bursts into kids' dreams, bringing with itself a fairy tale that they don't believe in…

The book on the floor opens wide on its own and the picture on its page starts to stir. The little green man straightens out his silk coat. Weightless dust pours from his golden wings and he makes several cautious steps, his feet in funny striped stockings are moving without even slightest sound.

He pours golden dust of dreams on kids' red heads then flies up and makes his way toward the first floor. The pair – a balding, but physically fit man and a dark-haired small woman – was taking a nap on the sofa in the living-room. He embraces her shoulders. The elf spills magic dust on their faces because he can't let them wake up.

Then he flies round the Christmas tree once and after he flaps his wings, a few new bundles suddenly appear under it. There is a big clear crystal in one of them, and tomorrow Margaret will decide that one present has come from Elizabeth, cousin of her parent, and another one from her cousin Christopher and kids won't think about it at all. There are so many bundles so it shouldn't wonder they won't be able to remember who exactly has sent all of them.

The elf turns around and looks at sleeping people one last time.

They won't be capable of seeing him unless they have believed.


	2. Part 2

**PART 2 CHRISTMAS IN CHILMARK OR A FAIRY TALE FOR FOX**

December 24th, 1973

09:38 p.m.

"We are responsible for those we have tamed"

The Fox "The little prince" by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

A tall, dark-haired boy is sitting in the fork of an old tree, which grown in the garden. He is wrapping himself up in a jacket and hiding his hands in the armpits; his fingers and ears are red from cold. The kid hasn't put on a cap, and nobody has reminded him to do it, but he doesn't want to go home. From an outsider's viewpoint, it looks like the house is empty and dark. There are no specific Christmas scents, which usually saturated through almost all the house till spring and felt even in the most remote corners. There are no Christmas carols from a small music box; before mom always set it at Christmas. There is no light there, nobody is cooking festive dinner, and even the main symbol of the oncoming holiday – a Christmas tree - is absent this year. Before they always had it – a huge green beauty with transparent Christmas baubles, golden bells all over it, and the small white angel with fluffy wings on the top. The right wing was broken a couple of years ago and Fox glued it himself.

Now all of these are gone. And probably forever.

Mom has locked herself in her room again, and Fox knows that she is crying there. He would like to be with her, to comfort her, but mom won't open the door; he is aware of it, too.

Dad is out. He'll come later tonight, go to the guest-room, where he sleeps nowadays, to look silently at darkness outside.

They almost won't talk whether with each other or with him.

They hardly talk now at all.

This time a year ago Fox and Samantha gnawed gingerbread and hung decorations on the Christmas-tree. Fox teased her then, telling her that Santa Claus didn't exist because he was just a fictitious character. Samantha ran to mom and complained about her brother so mom begged him to stop his teasing.

And now there is nobody to tease, and nobody who can run to complain about it.

Fox is shivering; barely visible haze of his breathing is rising in the air. They often climbed up this tree in summer because when it was covered with leaves, the fork wasn't noticeable from the road so it was a perfect place for hiding. Samantha demanded to tell her fairy tales, but Fox hardly knew any of them; he often began to make up his own stories. Then Samantha got angry and told him that these fairy tales weren't right and started telling ones herself. It happened rarely, but Fox remembered every single summer day. Now there is no foliage on the tree so ground, the house, and depressing cloudy sky are perfectly well seen through the bare branches.

There will be no more fairy tales.

Because Samantha is gone.

She has disappeared.

No, she hasn't disappeared. He remembers perfectly well how she has been taken. He remembers that he could move neither his arms, nor his legs, remembers bright light, blinding him, remembers strange people who came to take his sister. He remembers all details of her abduction with frightening clarity and hates himself because of inability to do something to prevent it, although he understands that, probably, he isn't to blame. But nevertheless, it seems he is. Fox sincerely believes that his parents hate him for it, too, and much time will pass before he realizes that he is mistaken. But now he constantly rewinds these painful memories in his mind like an old broken film.

At first he was waiting for Samantha's return in an hour, but hours were passing and still she didn't come back. Then he began to wait that she would return tomorrow. After that – in a week. And now he seems to understand that she won't ever come home.

Fox refuses to believe in it, and makes himself to remember over and over; so hard that his efforts lead to nausea, ringing in the head and pain in the temples. He makes himself to do it over and over as if it can return her. Eventually, he starts to see nightmares, and in every dream it's more horrible than it was in reality and more frightening than in his memories. So Fox tries to sleep less; instead he whether secretly watches TV at night until he falls into a dull stupor or thoughtlessly reads books. It hardly helps, and at the moment he is already dead tired.

Twelve-year-old boy doesn't understand that he is pushing himself into an abyss. Fox is rubbing cold ears with his hands. Fortunately, he won't be able to fall asleep so high up from the ground because the tree's fork is too uncomfortable and cold. There are no other houses near, but the boy knows pretty well that all normal people celebrate Christmas this evening. Although Fox isn't in the mood for it, he seems that Samantha would be glad if at least one green branch would appear in their house. How can she find her way home if it's dark and empty?

Fox gets down and is slowly walking to the house.

The boy isn't hungry, but he knows that he should eat so he comes into the kitchen, takes some food out the fridge (it seems a sandwich) and washes it down with water. Complete darkness reigns in the house; it deafens him, puts pressure on his ears, crushes and tramples in him. There has never been so quiet in here. The boy seems that the house has become desolate.

He goes upstairs and enters his sister's room.

Fox looks around, and sees Samantha's drawings on the table, her dresses in the wardrobe, her dolls on the drawers and her books on the shelves. Fox tries hard not to touch anything to make sure all things will stay on its place when Samantha returns. He sits at her table. There are opened books and an unfinished drawing on it. Samantha drew an elf. She believed that those little green men truly existed. Nobody sees them, but they exist. Once she told Fox that she had allegedly spotted a real elf in the garden; he had hidden in green summer foliage and laughed. A drawn little man is a bit crooked, his wings are different sizes and face bears resemblance to a clown's mask. Fox is looking at picture for a long time.

He would like to hold a celebration for his sister, but there is nowhere to get a Christmas tree; it's necessary to ride for it, but his father has taken the car, and, besides, a twelve-year-old boy is not allowed to drive a vehicle. Fox takes a box with crayons, finds green one and begins to draw. He is not good at it, but a Christmas-tree appears on the same paper sheet soon. It's also pretty crooked, but he doesn't mind. The boy is drawing a garland, decorations and trying to portray Samantha by the tree. Suddenly he hears approaching light steps from the stairs.

He puts aside the drawing and peers into the hallway.

"Mom?"

His mother raises at him her hollow eyes with dark circles under them, which haven't left her face for a month, and asks dryly,

"Fox? What are doing there?

"I… nothing."

"Go to bed. It's late."

She turns her back upon him almost indifferently, and the kid feels a sudden urge to shout at her or to hit the wall with his fist and draw blood from his knuckles. He is ready to do anything – anything just to make them understand that he is also alive.

That he also exists.

And he is in pain, too.

But it seems that nobody cares about it. They are drowning in their own boundless ocean of pain.

When mother locks herself up in her bedroom again, Fox quickly passes each room in the house, turning light on. He does it everywhere: in the living-room, in his own room, in Samantha's room, in the guest room, where his father's unfinished book lies on the bed, carelessly covered with a gaudy bedspread, in the kitchen, in the library – everywhere. Fox drags a chair to a build-in shelf under the ceiling and takes a cardboard box with Christmas-tree decorations. Then he hangs red-stripped socks and a fluffy garland over the fireplace.

A sudden sharp pop of closing front door stops him.

His father is looking at the son with cold eyes.

"Are you crazy?" asks William Mulder instead of greeting. "What celebration? Don't you see what your mother is going through? What is this illumination for? Take it off immediately!"

"You…" Fox halts when a huge lump sticks in his throat, but then goes on, "You act as if she is dead! You can't… Don't you dare to think so! She isn't dead, she is alive. And she will return! And I'm going to save this place so she still might return here! I don't want her to return to the empty house! I won't take it off, I won't!"

William Mulder raises his hand to hit his son, and Fox screws up his eyes, but doesn't step back and doesn't lose hold of the box.

But the blow never comes. Mulder senior sighs almost inaudibly, puts a hand on the sharp boy's shoulder, and then leaves. Fox opens his eyes, sees his father's stooped back, and understands with painful clarity that nothing is ever going to be as before.

Hardly holding back scream, which threaten to burst from his throat, Fox bites his low lip, drawing blood, and keeps taking out fireplace decorations.

Christmas must be despite everything. Exactly for her, for Samantha. Wherever she is. And for him, for Fox, too. He can't bear the thought of her being dead so he is going to live as if she is still alive. She is really alive he is sure of it.

Fox sinks into a sofa, and again replays the events of that night in his memory. He constantly seems that he misses something; maybe he could spot something somewhere, but he hasn't spotted it and it bothers him now and makes to remember over and over. His head becomes heavy, nausea rises to his throat, and an obscure round dance of images whirls before his eyes. Fox drops his head on pillows and falls into some kind of strange numbness, which is semi-dream, semi-hallucination. Not surprisingly, because he hasn't slept for almost two days and it has been just short naps at best.

He doesn't understand that if he won't stop it he will go insane.

A little green man takes wing from a sheet of paper. At first he shakes off remnants of a slate pencil from his small coat then is shaking pollen from his wings on a drawn Christmas- tree and it seems as if it winces. Coniferous scent is spreading in the room.

The elf is flying round the house. This house is ill: the light is turned on everywhere, but nevertheless, it's dark, cold and empty here. It can't be healed or eliminated and the elf realizes that this place is doomed. It's too cold here; there is too much misunderstanding and resentment. But something can be done. The small creature pours his golden pollen on the adults' heads to ease their pain – even just a little bit – instead giving them a drop of hope.

But they don't have any reason for hope.

A dark-haired teenager is lying on a sofa, squirming, with his long legs tucked up and his head thrown back. He is cold in his old sweater, which obviously is too small for him so his slim boyish wrists stick out of the sleeves. But it isn't the only reason why he is felling cold. The boy is pale, he suffers from insomnia and now he is in the grip of nightmares again in which he can't find an exit from a burning house or can't reach his sister or falls down into a black, bottomless abyss.

The elf pours golden pollen on his head, and troubled dreams, which torture the boy, fade, turning into an obscure shadow, an unclear memory. They'll never leave him alone completely, but they won't be able to drive him crazy. Perhaps, someday he will want to remember again. Maybe.

But not now.

The elf flies to the fireplace, and immediately one of the gaudy stripped stockings grows heavy. In the morning Fox is going to find a book there. A ship is drawn on its cover; a one-legged captain is standing on the deck of the ship and is looking at the sea. A chief mate is next to him. They are always together: the captain and his chief mate. And they look together in the same direction.

But it will be tomorrow.

The elf glances back at the boy for the last time.

He doesn't need to see to believe.

to be continued

**This is just a beginning of the long case-file story)**


	3. Part 3 Chapter1

**PART 3 CHRISTMAS IN ALBANY OR A FAIRY TALE FOR THE FEDERAL AGENTS**

Twenty six years later

You'll wrap into a dream

And be cloaked with it.

All wishes and mumbles

Come true in its stream

When we're not asleep.

"Sleep, my beloved"

, a Russian poet

That wasn't him again. Again. I was wrong again. It's impossible. It happened again. But I thought that I would make it. THEY told me that time I would succeed and that one would be him. And then they would reward me.

I hate them.

I hate all of them so much-

FBI Headquarters

Washington, DC

December 22nd, 1999

"That was the last straw!" Special Agent Fox Mulder slapped a file on the elevator wall with annoyance. "As though it's not enough that Christmas Eve is soon and Friday is just around the corner!"

They were descending alone; there was nobody in the elevator car with them.

"Mulder, since when have you became upset by the prospect of working at the weekend?" Special Agent Dana Scully reached for the folder. "And, besides, the Friday is the day after tomorrow. Did Skinner enlighten you on what we've got this time?"

Mulder wanted to answer that the prospect of working at Christmas holidays had ceased to entice for him since last year but said nothing. She could get it wrong.

"You're going to laugh-"

"Why do you think so?" asked Scully and opened a cardboard cover. "Santa Claus's murder?"

"Well, not Santa Claus, of course, but an actor who dressed up as Santa Claus. More than one, apparently. Police wouldn't contact the Bureau on Christmas Eve because of only one victim. So now they are waiting for us at the last crime scene. Skinner literally gave us a couple of hours to examine it, gather all possible information, and then they would be waiting for us to call a meeting."

The elevator doors quietly opened, and the agents headed for their basement office to take the coats.

"Poor kids," sighed Scully, flipping through the crime scene photos. "It's not so funny when somebody kills The Fairy Tale before your eyes-"

"You'd rather take pity on us. Don't forget that if the case takes longer than expected, you won't get to your mom and brother on time for celebration."

Scully said nothing. After all, she couldn't confess to him that if prospect of not spending Christmas with her family had had rather different reasons than another serial killer, she probably wouldn't have minded. But he wouldn't understand all the same.

During the ride toward the mall Mulder were telling his partner about their new case.

"The murders began almost a week ago. First three took place in three different towns of New York State. All towns are not farther than 30-40 miles from Albany or New York City. The first one occurred on the December, 17th. The janitors of the mall came in the morning and found the body in a sleigh, filled up with a reindeer hide and a bag with toys. Santa was seen a few minutes after 12 p.m., before closing time and, of course, he was still alive. But none of the workers remembers if he left. Moreover, they even couldn't identify him because most of them had seen him only in his make up and Santa's outfit. So, Michael Gordon, fifty-eight-years-old, was killed by a stab of a sharp narrow object, presumably of a knife, in the heart. Preliminarily, he was knocked out by a blow at his head from behind. Mister Gordon hadn't had a permanent job, and this year he had played a role of Santa Claus for the first time. The bag with toys and Santa Claus's costume belonged to the mall. The local police presumed that he had been killed for easy profit, but he hadn't had any valuable things or big sum of money with him and the goods hadn't been taken. Time of death was established to be between 1 and 4 a.m. It's hard to tell more accurate because the body was covered. Gordon hadn't had a family, his landlady didn't tell anything distinct, and a house-check in the flat turned out useless. The second murder occurred almost 24 hours later and had the same MO. That time a Eugene Dale, fifty-nine-years old, a loader of the local mall, who had been playing a part of Santa Claus for past four years, was killed. He also hadn't had a family, and police didn't manage to get some useful information from his landlord. The same with the search. While police of the two towns were trying to find something else in common between murders, the third murder was committed. It happened on the December, 19th, about 7 a.m. The victim's name was Mortimer Swenson, Swede by birth, sixty-three-years old. He was found dead by his wife behind the counter of his baby goods store at 8 a.m. He was in Santa's costume. The cash register was broken open, but because Swenson had methodically pulled money out of it every evening, the killer couldn't make good at his expense. If the cash register was broken open by him, of course. The wife couldn't clear up anything. After that police finally took alarm and demanded whether to assign a security guard to nearly every single Santa Claus or cancel all that clownery. Eventually, the local TV channel made an announcement because nobody wants to cancel a celebration. But while they were catching the Santa's killer in the suburbs of Albany, on the December, 21st another murder happened in Virginia at dawn. It's only 25 miles from DC.

"He moved to another state," summarized Scully, looking at the victim's photos.

"Without a doubt. Probably, he watches TV, too. The killer reaped the similar harvest there, but he made it for only two days. The body of Hugo Jackson, sixty-five-years-old, was found on the 21st. He was the owner of a candy store who had used to serve behind the counter in Santa Claus's costume every year at Christmas. His daughter, Martha Jackson, who also works there, found him at 10 a.m. Jackson had been careless with his finances, and the five days receipts, which he didn't retrieve, was sneaked out from the cash register. According to the medical examiner's report, the murder took place between 7 and 9 a.m. Kevin MacMillan, fifty-six-years-old, an odd-job man of the local mall, who had advertised baby goods in Santa Claus's costume, was found dead in Baltimore at dawn. Judging by ME report, the time of death was between midnight and 3 a.m. MO is the same."

"Two people during one night?" asked Scully with surprise. "Is he in hurry?"

"Perhaps. By the way, get out of the car. If we don't hurry, too, by going on foot, we will have reached the crime scene exactly by New Year. There is a traffic jam ahead."

Mulder climbed out and stood on a sidewalk; Scully did the same and they rushed on, covering their faces from the sharp, chilly wind.

"So that happened on the 21st. Today is the 22nd. The information was sent to all neighboring towns and states; maybe he job-hoped somewhere else and we just don't know about it. Rodger Prescott was killed in the Arlington's shopping center tonight. We are heading there now."

"What is known about the victims except all of them played the part of Santa Claus and were Caucasian men?" asked Scully, trying to pull the coat's collar over her face. The hard, prickly wind mercilessly hit her in the face, making Scully screw up her eyes and keep on walking almost blindly.

"Age and appearance are similar but it's perfectly understandable, considering their roles. This way," added Mulder and waved his hand.

The mall was closed for customers so displeased people, gathering by the entrance, were heatedly discussing it. Mulder showed his badge to a police officer.

"Specials Agents Mulder and Scully, we are with the FBI."

The cop let them in and pointed into the hall.

The partners moved there.

It was unusually quiet inside. The hall was decorated for Christmas with garlands, tinsel, Christmas tree decorations, and artificial snow. The Nativity scene with tiny figures, frozen in eternity, was set in the niche, illuminated from beneath; a big plywood sleigh, covered with the synthetic reindeer hides, stood nearby in the darkest corner. The air was saturated with smells of ginger and cinnamon, but atmosphere was far from festive.

Because the dead body lied under the hides and blood soaked in its artificial fur.

One of the cops cast a cursory glance at their IDs, then nodded and said,

"Here it is. We intentionally haven't taken the body away; we've been waiting for you. Our guys are done here. Needless to say that the maniac is the last thing we wanna deal with on Christmas Eve-"

A very pale and nervous looking assistant manager stood next to the cop. He shifted from one foot to the other and crumpled a thin white handkerchief in his hands.

"T-tell me, please- How long will it take to catch him?"

"I can't say you that yet, sir," Mulder replied. "Would you let me, please?-"

Several other cops stood by the sleigh.

"Detective Campbell," one of them introduced himself. He supposedly was a senior officer here.

"Special Agents Mulder and Scully with the FBI. Officer, have you already got information on the other murders?

"Yes, of course. But we haven't found anything unusual; we have the same MO here – the victim was knocked out by some heavy object and then stabbed in the heart. The murder weapon is absent."

"Any prints? Fingerprints maybe?"

"Nothing, sir. Data aren't full yet, forensics are still working on it, but I don't think we'll find anything specific. The body was found by the employees who came at 07:30 a.m. According to medical examiner, the victim was killed at dawn, approximately between 4 and 6 a.m."

Mulder squatted down to examine the body more thoroughly. Scully bent near him; she was so close that Mulder involuntary inhaled barely tangible smell of her hair. It was a mistake because he had forbidden himself to do so a long time ago.

Even by an accident.

"Apparently, this guy didn't use a pillow," he pointed out. The dead elderly man was really stout; judging by his appearance, he weighted not less than 240 pounds and had about 6 feet in height so Santa's costume hardly buttoned on him. He definitely didn't need to make a fake belly with a pillow. "Who was he?"

"Rodger- Rodger Prescott," replied the manager assistant hurriedly. "We hired him last week through an advertisement."

"I know his name. Did you know him before?" asked Mulder dryly.

"No, sir."

"Do you have any personal information on him?"

"No, sir. Or rather I don't remember. But I've written down his address- and other stuff- so if you need something-

"Did he have any relatives?"

"I don't know, sir," confused manager assistant answered. "I don't think so, sir."

"Have you found anything else?" Mulder asked the detective.

"I'm afraid no, nothing useful," he answered.

Mulder and Scully exchanged glances and stepped aside.

"The serial killer murders people who disguise themselves as Santa Claus. The most reasonable course of action in that kind of situation is to stop these Christmas gatherings before it's too late. I don't understand why it hasn't been done already!" Scully obviously was at a loss.

"I'd agree with you, Scully, if it wasn't for one thing." Mulder wasn't taking his eyes off the cops who crawled around motionless body like ants. The mall workers crowded nearby and a few other officers canvassed them. The holiday turned out well for these people, there is no doubt about it, thought the agent with bitter irony.

"What thing?"

"How does he pick them up? There is more than one Santa Claus even in the smallest town he visited. But he doesn't kill them all. What is the principle of selection? I'm afraid that he won't fall for our decoy if we try to use bait."

"Mulder, it's just an ordinary maniac. After all, you don't run to VCU every time they face a similar case."

"Is that what you think?"

She sighed.

"But Skinner considered it necessary to send us here. He asked to pay attention to the autopsy reports. Have you already examined the body? What can you tell? What about anything unusual?

"Practically nothing. But if you've noticed, his beard is absent. The wig is here but the beard disappeared. And there are traces of spirit gum on his face. Apparently, the beard was torn off because fresh scratches are visible on the skin of his chin and cheeks. In whole, I can confirm that officer's words – the victim was knocked out with one blow to the head from behind, then stabbed in the heart with a sharp long object of small diameter and one-sided sharpening, presumably, a long narrow knife."

"I see," nodded Mulder. "Anything else?"

"Else?" Scully seriously considered his question. "Something else seems unnatural to me, but I can't put my finger on that yet."

"Hold on."

He returned to the sleigh.

"Officer, have you found anything? I mean notes or other unusual details?"

"No, sir."

"What about the false beard?"

"My people are searching for it."

Mulder signed.

"I'm afraid that the beard has already vanished in thin air," he said, turning to his partner. "Only God knows why he needs it."

"Serial killers are strong point," replied Scully, "so I heed to you, sir."

At this moment one of the cops approached the agents. He held a small particoloured bag in his hands.

"We have found it in a trashcan behind the mall. Apparently, it contains letters from kids. The victim's colleagues affirmed that he'd had the bag yesterday."

"File it, and let your people check out all these letters. Though, it's unlikely that we will find something."

"Do you have any other questions?" inquired the Detective; his voice sounded cheerless.

"Who found the body?"

"The manager, Mister Freeman. The mall is opened from 8 a.m. to midnight; he comes at 07:30 a.m. Do you want to talk to him?"

"Sure," nodded Mulder.

The manager looked completely crushed.

"Michael Freeman?" asked Mulder and flashed his ID. "We are Special Agents Mulder and Scully with the FBI."

"I've already told police all I know," answered Freeman automatically, wearily closing his eyes. "I came at 07:30 a.m., entered through the back door – it's my daily routine. I didn't go to the shop floor right away; I decided that the heating system had failed so at first I walked downstairs into the basement- After that, when I returned to the shop floor, I found the body and immediately called police. That's all. I didn't notice anything particular or unusual. Police suppose that the killer had left through the back door; it's possible because he could just slam the door there – the lock is automatic so- I don't have anything else to add."

"What had happened with heating system?" asked Scully.

"It was very cold on the shop floor so I decided that it had turned off, but all equipment were on. I don't know why it was so cold," replied the manager impatiently. It was plenty obvious that he didn't enjoy that conversation at all. "Probably, the killer had broken a window somewhere-"

"Can you tell us anything else?"

"No. Agent Mulder, I've already told the same story five times. So I don't know what else you want to hear from me."

"OK. It will be enough for now."

The manager stepped aside, leaned on the counter with his elbows, and buried his face in his hands. Mulder approached the Detective again to ask him about possible broken windows.

"No, we haven't found anything like that," he replied. "But it has been really cold since the morning; it has gotten warm only recently. That's why we are not sure about definite time of death. Anything else, Agent Mulder?"

"Not yet. Tell us if your people find the beard. Are you going to assist during the autopsy?" Mulder turned to Scully. It's better to step farther from her or this almost intangible feeling will be haunting him the whole day; even when she isn't nearby. He felt this barely perceptible fragrance through smells of ginger and cinnamon, through stuffy heat of the sales area, through stink of sweat and cigarette smoke, emanating from the cops, and even through heavy sweetish smell of blood.

Actually, if it haunts him _only _one day, it will be good news.

"Thank you, Mulder, for great Christmas present," Scully grinned. "The other bodies don't have any special features. At least, I haven't found it in the reports. Let's see what the police ME has to say, and then I will examine the body myself."

Mulder quickly looked through the file.

"According to it, the beard is also absent in victim's description in the last three incidents," Mulder thought it over for a moment. "And only in two of them it was found later in the trashcans not far from the crime scenes. Don't you think we deal with a ritualistic murder?" inquired Mulder.

"No, I can't remember the cults which practice Santa Claus's murder."

"But it doesn't look like work of a serial killer. He practically doesn't leave traces and take measures to make determination of time of death difficult. Isn't he too prudent for a maniac? Besides, the victims differ from each other, for example, by their social statuses. We have a broad variety from unemployed persons to shop's owners, from odd-job men to permanent employees-"

"Mulder, but all of them are Santa Clauses. You know perfectly well it's more than enough reason for a serial killer. We should look for what they had in common. Some particular feature which differs them from others. If we really deal with a maniac, and it's not just an attempt to get rid of a definite person. Where is it easier to hide anything? Among similar things."

"I don't think it's an ordinary murder, disguised as series of murders. It's too complicated and too fast; we have six bodies per week."

A police officer approached them.

"Agents, I think, you'll want to take a look at it."

He held out a transparent plastic evidence bag with a small piece of paper in it.

"There are only four words there, Agent Mulder."

Mulder carefully picked up the evidence bag. The sheet of paper was small and covered with multicoloured arrows, which rounded the text. The letters were also colorful.

"_This is not him. _Where did you find it?"

"In the bag with presents. It doesn't look like a letter to Santa."

"He didn't leave such marks before," observed Scully, looking through the file.

"The situation is changing. If we only can predict in which direction… Does he look for somebody? That's why he tears off their beards? Does he look for some concrete person?"

Mulder returned the evidence bag to the cop.

"Order to run a handwriting analysis on that."

The officer left.

"I don't like this case, Scully. I can't see a full picture- Call me when you finish the body's examination. And the autopsy, of course."

Scully sighed; she knew how it usually ended. She spotted a medical examiner near the sleigh and headed for him.

The ME was scratching his chin with grim expression on his face.

"I don't like it," he said to no one in particular, involuntary repeating Mulder's words.

"What exactly?" inquired approaching Scully.

"It's done too clean. There is very small amount of blood here. The body is lying on the side, but it looks like blood almost didn't leak from the wound… Stab wound into the heart looks a little different."

- Lost in thought Mulder was looking at the body of a stout man in a red costume who would never promise presents to anybody or wish Merry Christmas again.

_This is not him._

If this is not him then who is? Does it mean that murders will go on?

Why, why? That wasn't him again, I couldn't do it, I didn't live up to- I have to find him. But how can I find him if they don't tell me where to look?! Which one is real? How should I choose him? I'm watching them, looking if they take a pillow, how they talk with kids- I don't know how else. I can't get closer. But every time this is not him. Over and over again. They embrace him and say that this is not him.

And after they embrace him, I put him into sleep.

Otherwise, he will rise and follow me. But I don't want it.

I have to find him.


End file.
